by Nathan Roden
The garden resembled the streets of a neighborhood—built several feet above the ground. There were street signs, a few tasteful billboards, and the most elaborate collection of birdhouses and bird feeders that I had ever seen.
One of the birdhouses was a replica of Tara, the plantation house in “Gone with the Wind”. The detail was unbelievable. A sparrow landed on the front porch of Tara. He paused to look me over for a second before he went inside. One of his family members watched me through a second story window.
I rang the doorbell.
That would be the doorbell to Q’s condo. Don’t get weird on me.
“Wylie. What a pleasant surprise!” Q said. “Come on in. I was about to order out for lunch.”
I followed Q into the condo. There was nothing that special about it until we walked through a pair of French doors. Beyond, was the biggest room I have ever seen that didn’t house a sports team. Wow.
Thirty-foot ceilings. Thirty-foot windows. An all-glass three-story elevator in one corner. An in-wall salt water aquarium stocked with huge tropical fish. A basketball goal—and probably the largest antique wood desk in the world. There was a glass-walled room in one corner with a large U-shaped table against three of the walls. A large Victorian birdhouse sat in the middle of the table, in the final phase of construction. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held every conceivable thing that you might use to build a real house.
Q laughed at my dropped jaw and bulging eyes.
“That’s the same look everyone has the first time they walk in. I looked like that myself for the longest time, and I designed it,” Q said, leaning against the desk.
“The only word I can think of to describe this is ‘Wow’,” I said. “Is the whole house like this?”
Q shook his head.
“Just these two rooms. I spend most of my time in here, anyway, so I saw no need to make a fuss over the rest of it.”
“I passed through Bird Town on the way in,” I said, “that is most impressive. Did you build that yourself?”
“It’s my main creative outlet. I could do most anything with my time, I guess, but I’ve always loved birds—especially sparrows. They’re my soul brothers.”
“Really?” I asked, “Why sparrows? Your favorite ice cream flavor must be vanilla.”
Q shrugged.
“There are zillions of them and they all look the same. They live and die, and no one even notices, except maybe God. But even God references sparrows as an example of something that’s so plain and common that it’s almost worthless. It’s hard to imagine being more of an underdog than that. But God can’t be God if he doesn’t love the sparrows.
“And you know what. Wylie? You give sparrows a safe place to nest, some seeds and some fresh water—and they’ll stay with you for their entire lives. They’ll mate and have babies, and generation after generation will come to depend on you. You can do all of that for very little money, and they wouldn’t care a bit. Do you know what that makes me want to do? It makes me want to build them palaces and neighborhoods— and feed them the most expensive food that I can find.”
“It’s sort of like ‘stickin’ it to the man’, huh?” I said.
“Exactly,” Q said, pointing a finger toward his yard, “The sparrows and I are ‘stickin’ it to the man’.”
“Those little buggers,” Q said, staring out at the bird village, “They don’t need me at all, but they choose me. I think they might even trust me. I can’t stop, I know that much. How would I ever sleep at night?”
Q nodded toward the packages I brought with me.
“What do you have there?”
“Well, I wanted to thank you for saving my skin and then bailing me out.”
I handed him the package.
“Open this up and unfold it.”
Q unwrapped the package and unfolded the life-size cardboard likeness of Sean Connery as James Bond—holding his Walther pistol.
“Yes!” Q said. “Man, this is perfect. Thanks, Wylie.”
He stood the figure up and looked around the room for a place for James Bond to watch over him.
“And here’s something that you can’t buy just anywhere,” I said.
I handed him a box.
Q opened the box and held up a t-shirt.
“Sean Connery is James Bond, Michael Keaton is…” Q lip-read the rest and laughed.
“Oh, that’s classic—and it’s signed. Patty Westerhouse—that’s your mother?”
“Yeah. She was sort of famous for these a couple of years ago. She sent me some that she autographed.”
“Thank you. I will treasure them both,” Q said.
“No one said anything about your little…performance last night, Double-O-Seven,” I said.
“I don’t think those boys want to admit that someone witnessed their ambush,” Q said. “But a witness is what I will be if they attempt to files assault charges. I don’t think Mr. Plimpton will allow that to happen.”
“I hope not. Man, what are the odds? I punch out a heckler that turns out to be my boss’s grandson. Don’t buy any lottery tickets when I’m around,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I got to play Secret Agent for the first time ever. I’ve been so jacked on adrenaline that I haven’t slept since. I feel like Awesome-Man,” Q said.
“I’m happy for you, Secret Agent Awesome Man. Me, I’m going back home to sleep for twelve hours. Thanks again for your help,” I said, extending my hand.
We shook hands, and I turned to go.
“What are you doing here, Wylie?” Q said, to my back.
I turned around.
“Uh, just saying ‘thanks’,” I said.
“What are you doing in Branson, Missouri?” Q said, leaning once again against the front of his desk.
“Taking a shot at a music career, like a few thousand other people,” I said.
Q shook his head.
“I don’t think so.”
I laughed.
“Okay, you’re on to me. I have a mad lust for self-embroidered denim. And waffles.”
Q crossed his arms.
“You have a good voice and a great stage presence,” he said.
“But….” I said.
“You don’t really care about the type of music that you’re doing. The Hank Williams songs, yes. You’ve made those yours—especially ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry’.”
I don’t know why, but Q’s comments hit me hard.
“That song is…” I stopped for a few seconds.
“It means a lot to me. I mean, it used to…, no, it still means a lot to me.”
“Even so, that doesn’t mean that you have to confine yourself to country music,” Q said.
“It pays the bills. Some of them, anyway,” I said.
“When you sing that song, there’s a passion there that isn’t matched by the rest of your set. I don’t think that I’m the only one to notice it. I hate to see your talent taking the wrong direction,” Q said.
I stepped toward the panoramic view beyond the wall of glass.
“That whole Brand New Voice thing,” I said. “Everything happened so fast. I was young and stupid and pretty much on my own. My Aunt Jessie was handling almost everything until she got sick. They found out that she had a brain tumor.
“All of a sudden, I had to handle everything alone—the media, and all the attention. It seemed like everybody wanted something from me….and I was completely freaking lost.
“So, along comes Sean Lowe. He’s a flashy, young New York agent with a list of budget clients, mostly off-Broadway actors. Manager, agent, fairy godmother—whatever you want to call him—I didn’t know the difference, and I didn’t care. I was so desperate for help that I couldn’t sign fast enough. ‘Standard contracts, all industry standard’ he said.
“Everything went okay, for a few weeks. I was still in for the third round of ‘Voice’ before everything went to crap. On a Friday afternoon, I parked up the block from my girlfriend’s apartment buildi
ng. I was getting ready to go up and ring her doorbell. I had been trying to call her for two days, and she didn’t answer. Before I even got out of the car, I saw her run from the front of the building, jump into Sean’s Corvette and kiss him. I watched them drive away.
“I went straight home and opened a bottle of Scotch. A couple of hours later I was opening my mail, and I had a new credit card bill. This was a credit card that I knew nothing about. It had a balance of eighteen thousand dollars—charges for expensive hotel rooms, restaurants, theater tickets—mostly in New York. I called my Aunt Jessie. She gave me the phone number of her lawyer.
“I went to his office with the contracts. It turns out that I had given that slime bag authorization to open a corporate account for expenses related to my career. I gave him the legal right to wine and dine my girlfriend and send me to the poor house.
“My mother and Jessie gave me the money to hire Jessie’s lawyer. The lawyer sued Sean over the contract. Within days, we found out that Brand New Voice’s team and their network had sued him first, over allegations that he was involved in a conspiracy to fix the voting. As if Sean Lowe hadn’t tortured me enough—he was conspiring to have me voted against. He placed huge bets with a Vegas bookie that I would be eliminated by the third round. That part was never reported. The conspiracy was for me to lose.
“I have no idea how Lowe and his partners got caught. I found out from a reporter that I had been disqualified. The last thing I heard is that Sean and his new girlfriend are hiding out somewhere in Canada. His attorney is stalling the legal proceedings. I had to borrow money from my attorney to pay off the credit card. Before I could have it canceled, the balance went up another six thousand dollars.
“The only legitimate piece of business that Sean actually did on my behalf was booking me for twelve weeks’ worth of club gigs and showcase concerts. All of those were right here in Branson. When my attorney learned about that, he let me know that it would be a good idea for me to fulfill those bookings. He put up the money to hire the band, too. I owed him over thirty thousand dollars.
“So, Mr. Lynchburg. Are you feeling that passion yet?”
Quentin blinked a few times.
“I’m sorry, Wylie. I had no idea. Really. I had no right to say what I did. Please forgive me.”
“No, I’m the one that’s sorry. You couldn’t have known any of that. You’ve been very kind, and I appreciate it,” I said.
The phone on Q’s desk rang.
“Thanks again, Quentin. I’ll be going,” I said, starting toward the door.
“No, please stay, Wylie, if you can. This will just take a minute,” Q said, rushing to answer the phone. He put the call on speaker, which went out to a surround sound system. It made the caller sound like the voice of God.
“Hello. This is Quentin Lynchburg.”
“Mr. Lynchburg? This is Brian McAllen,” the voice of God said.
Q picked up the James Bond cutout and moved him to a spot by the aquarium. He seemed pleased with the location.
“I’m sorry? Who is this?” Q asked.
“Brian McAllen—Project foreman with the castle.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. How are you doing, Brian? How is our little project going?” Q asked.
“That’s why I’m calling, Mr. Lynchburg. We’ve run into one difficulty after another. I had ten Spaniards on my crew that were with me for four years; five brothers and five cousins. They got spooked on the job site, jumped into their truck and drove away. They believe the castle is haunted. They were screaming ‘El Diablo! El Diablo!’ while they were running away. These were ten of the best on my crew, and I’ll have to hire fifteen at top wages to replace them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Brian. Whatever it costs you to replenish your crew, add it to the bill,” Q said.
“And that’s not to mention that the bloke you bought the castle from had no idea you intended to move the place. He and his niece are quite upset. I thought that giant man was gonna tear me head off of my shoulders.”
“Oh. I’m afraid I never considered that possibility. He seemed so eager to sell that I just thought—” Q said.
“Aye, but those are the least of our troubles, I’m afraid, Mr. Lynchburg. Do you have the pictures of the castle there with you?”
“Uh, just a second, Brian,” Q said.
He stepped behind his desk and pulled out his keyboard shelf. He struck a few keys. The windows darkened electronically. A projector screen lowered against the wall opposite the desk. When the screen stopped, four pictures of the castle appeared. The castle was a small one, as castles go, but still impressive.
“Got the pictures up now Brian,” Q said.
“Good. You see the turret room there?”
“That’s the big round one, right? At the front corner?” Q asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one. This castle only has the one, that’s probably why it’s so big. Anyway, we’ve determined that we can’t disassemble it the way we had planned. The mortar and the stones are too fragile to take the chance. Even if we were able to get her apart, putting her back together perfectly would be near impossible. The only option we have is to cut her in three pieces horizontally.”
“Okay, then. Three pieces, horizontally,” Q said, with a sigh.
“Aye, but here’s the rub, Mr. Lynchburg. Those three pieces will take special arrangements for transporting, due to their size. We’re talking heavy duty, special permit rigs, with escort vehicles, front, and rear. I’ll have to send out scouts to check the route for clearances. We’ll have to measure structures and power lines, and such. We’ll have to do the same on your side of the water, and we’ll be needing to lease an extra cargo vessel. We’ll need extra day’s rental for the big crane, and there’s only one band saw in the country big enough for the job.”
“How much are we talking about, Brian?” Q asked.
Brian McAllen exhaled heavily.
“I’d say we’re looking at another half a million, Mr. Lynchburg.”
Q sat back heavily in his chair, staring into space as he drummed his fingers on the desk. He turned and looked at me.
I’m guessing that what he saw was someone whose life was turned upside down for thirty thousand dollars.
“Let’s make it happen, Brian.”
Eight
The McIntyre Family
McIntyre Village, Scotland
Brian McAllen hung up the phone and downed the bottom third of his cup of industrial strength coffee.
“Ahhh!” he said with satisfaction. He slapped both hands down on the desk and looked up at his assistant foreman.
“Thomas, if every client we dealt with was like our Mr. Lynchburg, I might have a lot more hairs on top of me head. And those might still be jet black,” he said.
“So we’re a go, then?” Thomas Killeen asked.
Brian McAllen stood.
“Half a million dollars, and the man nary batted an eye. Get on the phone and locate that giant stone saw, the same one we rented last spring. Tell ‘em we’ll pay whatever it takes to have it here by the morning. I have to order another ship.”
McAllen turned to leave the trailer. He stopped and turned around.
“Tell them we need extra blades on site. We can’t be left standing around if one breaks, and who knows what might be inside of seven-hundred-year-old walls. I won’t be shut down by any surprises.”
Americans. Gotta love ‘em. God, if only I could work for men with bottomless pockets every day, Brian thought.
Brian threw open the door of the trailer and yelled.
“Let’s work that crane into position and start shoring up the upper third of that turret tower. Mitchell! Rutherford! I want a list of every chain and strap we have on the site. Gentlemen, just like we talked about, we’ll be taking her down in three horizontal cuts. We need her ready for the first cut at daybreak tomorrow.”
Half of the crew continued taking down portions of the castle roof and walls and loading them onto trailers
. Most of the well-worn antique furnishings were loaded up and on their way to the port.
Dallas McIntyre, Elizabeth, Nora, and Charlotte met near the castle for the third time that day.
“The northern boundary remains unchanged. The others, as well?” the Baron asked.
His wife and daughters nodded.
“Dallas, what will we do? If we remain confined to these grounds?” Elizabeth asked.
“I just can’t believe that will happen, Lizzie. I know nothing of this ghostly state, but it makes no sense. What purpose would it serve for us to wander around on pasture land?” Dallas said.
“What purpose have we ever served, Father?” Nora said, a tear trickling down her cheek. “We don’t even know why we remain here.”
Dallas McIntyre hugged his daughter.
“That’s true, darling. I have no more answers than you. Yet, I have to believe that whatever reason there is for us to be here, it has to do with those that are still living. I can’t see it any other way.”
Nora blinked several times and smiled at her father.
“That’s what I believe, too, Father.”
“Ahem!”
The McIntyre family turned to find Prince David and Princess Arabella standing behind them. Their arms were folded and they each tapped one foot.
“Yes?” Dallas McIntyre said.
“Do the four of you intend to stand idly by as these criminals destroy our home?” David asked.
“There is nothing we can do, David. The castle has been sold by the rightful owners,” Dallas said.
David chuffed.
“Rightful owners, indeed! We can stop them, Baron, but you will need to help us.”
“You have done nothing to impede their progress,” Elizabeth said.
“Look around you. Do you see any Spaniards? I made ten Spaniards disappear with just one turtle. If we all work together—” David said.
“Did you never learn to count, Your Highness?” Elizabeth asked. “There are more men here than yesterday.”
